Desperation
by Frances
Summary: Driven by her own desire, Ginny retrieves and reanimates Tom's diary. But when something goes horribly wrong and Tom becomes materialized to her eyes alone, a hero will emerge in the most unlikely of places. DG, GT triangle.
1. The Plan

**A/N: **This is super old and unfinished and all, but I felt like editing today, so that's what I did. :-)

**DESPERATION  
By: Frances**

Ginny hugged the stack of worn, hand-me-down books closer to her chest, the voices of students she passed echoing like ghosts in her ears. On either side of her towered the huge, stained glass windows that lined the hallways of Hogwarts' first floor: scarlet, green, yellow and blue. Patches of distorted light fell onto her hair and shoulders, making her feel strangely off-kilter. Everywhere, their eyes followed her. She swore that sometimes she could even hear their mirthful whispers, giggling and gawking at the short, awkward girl with a mass of red curls and a splotch of ugly freckles. And no friends. She was certain they picked up on that charming particular.

She felt trapped, as if every attempt to reach her was made out of pity or was dreadfully insincere. Every member of the family had tried to figure out what was wrong with her– even Fred and George had approached her in their own, useless way. It was Ron's concern that had frightened her the most, though. He had always been her favorite brother, with an overprotectiveness that was both sweet and annoying at the same time.

"You're scaring us, Gin; it's not like you to be so withdrawn," he'd said uncomfortably as he stood in her doorway. Awkward had become part of his nature, exuding from his lanky build and sweet persona. But with Ginny, he was always painfully honest: "Mum thinks you're losing your marbles. She's worried sick." He bowed his head, shuffling nervously before glancing back up at her. "We all are."

Insulted, Ginny felt a flare of anger fill her chest. She kept her face carefully blank and regarded Ron with mild disdain. "I'm fine," she declared icily. "It's no wonder I'd seek a little privacy, what with you nosing about."

Hurt, he had shuffled out of the room, murmuring a rare apology with a strange expression on his face. It was saddened and angry, but mingled about with it was... grief? That had given her a good push toward the edge that she now precariously teetered from. She had cried herself to sleep that night, her inky bedroom illuminated only by the crescent moon.

The emotion that had entangled her in its obscure web was unlike any she had ever experienced. She had thought at first that it was depression-- a sickening plea for companionship in her quiet, lonely life. But weeks, months, a year went by and still she felt haunted. It was the middle of her third year when realization finally hit her like an iron fist.

She missed _Him_.

After all this time, after all her hoping and praying that _Harry_ would ask her to the Yule Ball, that _Harry_ would suddenly look at her the way he looked at Cho, that bloody Harry would sweep her off her feet, out of this void, and take her to a lovely castle on an enchanted island where he would be Prince Charming and she would awake as Sleeping Beauty. After all this time, it wasn't Harry that she thirsted for, after all. It was Him.

Tall, thin but muscular, with a violet and inquisitive gaze; always willing to hug her when she was upset, or to kiss the top of her head and offer a kind word.. At first they had only written, of course. Through prose, Ginny had offered up her entire being for a few scraps of information about the boy she was falling in love with. But after a month of waiting, a window popped up in the center of her diary. The gap between them closed..

It dropped Ginny in the Slytherin Common Room, as He had known it some fifty years ago. It was empty, of course, but an emerald flame always glittered in the grate, casting eerie but beautiful shadows like flickering butterflies about the long, rectangular room. High-backed velvet chairs always waited for her. They were not particularly comfortable, but the beauty in their gloomy sophistication was almost exhilarating. Giant oak tables with polished, claw-like feet rested neatly atop ornate oriental rugs, their tops glittering with ink bottles, fancy quills, and other trinkets, alongside china of the very fine sort. A few cups were even brimming with tea. Smaller, circular tables sat faithfully at the side of the armchairs, though no less shiny or gaudy than the rest of the room. Silver and green tapestries poured from the low ceilings and pooled onto the cold stone floor. Most of them depicted the more gory scenes of Greek Mythology, but the one closest to the door bore only a gargantuan silver snake, so silky and cleverly sewn that often Ginny could not stand to stare at it for the strange, gnawing fear that it was gazing back.

In the far corner of the room there always stood a large stack of glowing parchment with a single peacock quill scratching frenziedly atop it. Upon closer examination, Ginny had been astonished to discover that the quill narrated her every move.

_He _always sat in the second chair from the left, and would not turn his frighteningly beautiful face to her until she sat in the seat next and commenced conversation. He would fold his hands and stretch out his legs, listening intently while she chatted with utter abandon. Once she had asked him about the glowing parchment, but he waved off the subject as though it were insignificant.

Now older and wiser, she knew those splendid times were actually the ghastly hours of the night during which he would possess her and drain her life force. She could cast back in her memory and pinpoint the exact moment he had revealed his secret, and the exact millisecond her heart had shattered.

To this day, she had not been able to recover it.

It was sickening to her, that anyone would so freely manipulate others, let alone an innocent child. It tore her up inside, remembering the way his breathtaking smile had morphed into a vicious sneer. Every trusting part of her, every twinge of naivete or inner child was driven away, leaving only an empty shell, longing once again to be full. Full, regardless of the price.

She had to obtain that diary.

And obtain it she did try, though none too pleasantly. She had approached Draco Malfoy. Not only had she approached him– she had _begged_ him for any information about the whereabouts of her beloved book. Haughtily, he laughed in her face, making sure to twist every knife that had worked its way under her skin. After weeks of torment and postponing, he still told her there wasn't a chance in hell that he would ever assist a Weasley.

Tossed once again into a vortex of desperation, Ginny had just begun researching Dark Arts when the pieces of her puzzle perfectly aligned.

She was fumbling for Newts' Eyes in a dark storage closet one afternoon when she stumbled upon Draco. A very much shirtless Draco, in fact, with none other than Blaise Zabinni. Who, coincidentally, was very much in a relationship with the son of the French Minister of Magic. Considering she had already lowered her standards to begging, she rather thought that blackmail was a step up. It worked surprisingly well. Not only, she discovered, was the diary repaired– it was carefully catalogued in the Malfoy Library. All Draco had to do to access it was write a letter to his butler, Marcus.

Continuing down the wide hallway, Ginny caught her reflection in one of the display cases she passed and could not suppress a shudder. Dark circles loomed under her eyes like shiny bruises, glinting against the sallow hue of her skin. She bowed her head, wondering what Tom would say if he could see her like this.

_"Ginny, you look terrible!__What happened? Are you ill?"_

That's what he had said to her when the attacks started. And he had known, the whole time! All the concern, the comfort– it was all a façade! Yet some part of her clung to hope. She couldn't help feeling that there was a chance he had used her with some reluctance, as if maybe, in the smallest of ways, she had meant something to him. It was a frail dream but it could not be extinguished.

Sighing, Ginny slipped unnoticed into the trophy room, pausing as her eyes adjusted to the thick blackness. The heavy curtains had all been drawn, and the huge cabinets hovered in the dark like dementors.

She hastily pulled out her wand. "_Lumos_ she whispered and instantly the room leapt to life. In the corner was Draco, silent and stony, his cold gaze flickering lazily up and down her thin figure. A knot tightened in her stomach. _How long has he been here?_

"Jesus, Weasley," he muttered as he gracefully rose from his position of leaning against the wall. "What the hell happened to you?" It was not a kind remark but, wordlessly, Ginny wondered how he made it sound so much more insulting.

"Nothing happened to me," she snapped, glaring. "Do you have the book?"

Warily, Draco pulled it from the folds of his robes, clutching it for a moment before turning his eyes to her. "I don't think you should do this," he said quietly.  
Ginny could not suppress a gasp as she laid eyes on the diary. A sharp longing in her chest made it hard to even breathe. "Do what?" she whispered.  
"_This_. I don't think you should reanimate this book, Ginny. Look what it's doing to you. You were bad enough as it is, but now you're a lunatic as well?"

Startled at his usage of her first name, Ginny took a step back. Her brow knitted with unease. "What would you care if I went insane, Malfoy?" she spat defensively. "What's it to you, really?"

Fine strands of silver fell into his eyes as he bowed his head and was silent for a long while. His expression was wavering and contemplative. Just when Ginny thought he would not answer, his shoulders tensed and he scowled. "It's nothing to me," he said through narrowed eyelids, curling and uncurling his free hand into a fist. When he turned his face to her again his lips were pursed and there was a strange flicker in his eyes. He threw the book at her feet. "You were warned, Weasley." With an unearthly stealth, he moved to the door and clutched the knob, but not before turning to her. "I don't know what you believe you've found inside of him, but it's not real. Nothing about him is." His sparkling silver eyes were like carefully carved chips of ice, angelic and haunting at the same time. "He _will_ kill you."

"It's a chance I'm willing to take."

"It's not a chance. It's a promise." With a cold nod, he whipped open the door and slid out into the hallway.

Ginny watched silently until he was gone, nausea swirling her vision and putting off her balance. She swayed violently, clutching a chair for support as her wand clattered to her feet and rolled across the floor. Breathing heavily, she pulled a quill from her pocket and pounced on the unsuspecting little book. It looked eerie in the half-light, appearing to absorb all color around it. Ginny shivered as its cool leather came in contact with her skin. Her mouth dry and her heart pounding wildly against her chest, she opened to the front page, blood rushing in her ears like river rapids after a heavy rainstorm. The familiar words "PROPERTY OF TOM M. RIDDLE" stood boldly against the worn parchment. She felt her stomach drop anxiously. Her hand shook as she touched the tip of the quill to the paper and her handwriting was twisty and foreign to her own eyes.

_Tom?_ There was a long, agonizing pause, and then:

_Hello, Ginny._

Adrenaline surging like wildfire through her veins, she released the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

_Tom, everything has been so horrible without you._ Every inch of her body shook as if from withdraw.

_I imagine so. It's been dark there, all by yourself._ Ginny stared blankly at the page, her heart stopping in wonderment at his ability to predict her emotions so well. _Hasn't it?_

_Yes. It has._

_I must admit, I feared you would have misunderstood, and steered away from me. I'm pleased you've given me an opportunity to correct our miscommunication._

Ginny blinked. _Miscommunication?_

_Of course. Ginny, you never really thought I wanted to cause you pain, did you? Please, come to me. I will explain everything._

Hot, stinging tears fell from Ginny's eyes. _Alright, _she wrote. A window appeared in the center of the book, and with the desperation of a starved animal, she thrust her head through the center. She bit back a scream as it enveloped her and she began to twirl away from the poorly lit room and into the arms of her confidant. A nearly drug-induced expression lit her face as she smiled, her heart at last content.

She continued to spin, oblivious to the fact that years away, Draco Malfoy was backing from the trophy room keyhole in disgust.


	2. Shattered

There was a meaty thud as Ginny smacked into the ground, the metallic taste of her own blood quickly filling her mouth. She had not landed in the extravagant Slytherin common room, as she had expected. Rather, all around her was blackness, an empty oblivion that caused her heart to stop completely before beating wildly against her ribcage. There was no horizon. There was scarcely even any ground. The once painfully solid floor began to melt into her body, to the point that she knew not where her own limbs ended and the darkness began. Her head began to slip into its icy waters and she called out, only to find that she had no voice. There was no sound in this place, nor was there atmosphere. All about her pulsed a stunning vortex, a terrifying sort of absence that chilled her to the very soul.

Then, suddenly, there came a sharp flash of light, and marble tiling shot out at her from its depths, lining itself a narrow bridge that ran all the way up to her chin. As the brightness faded slightly, a figure emerged. At first Ginny thought it was a dementor, for that was how it moved, and how it affected her as it neared. But upon closer examination, squinting through the jolting brightness, she realized it was only a boy.

A boy with a thin build and glaring violet eyes.

His footsteps were light and staccato, his expression carefully blank. Robes like gently rolling waves of obsidian billowed behind him in an antique design, and this against his pale skin made him look alarmingly sinister. Weakly, she raised her hand to him, hoping that he would pull her from the vortex and lift her to the glistening, shiny bridge.

But this he did not do.

A smirk alighted his features as he kneeled before her; stroking her cheek with the back of his long, articulate hand. His gaze seemed to pierce her mind from their settlement in a soft, almost childish face. Despite turmoil and the passing of three years, his features were unaltered. His appearance was handsome in a boyish fashion, and his smile had not lost its snakelike charm. "Dearest Ginny," he murmured, though his expression was dark and far from sincere. "Did you really think it that easy?" The question was quite obviously rhetorical, as she was slowly choking on the freezing emptiness as it entered her lungs and spread through her veins like poison. "Such trusting I have never seen in even the most desperate of children. I am quite fortunate to have found you." Lifting her chin silently, he raised her from the whirlpool; holding solely onto her long, thin neck. She dared not to move and held her body utterly still, hanging limply by his hand as though a puppet on a string. At last he set her feet gently onto the brilliant marble and stepped away.

Ginny's breath came in strangled gasps as she swayed and spluttered, her lips numb and nearly useless. Her lungs burned passionately but no matter how she tried it was as if she couldn't get enough oxygen, like the brief deprivation had handicapped her forever. "Why did you do this?" she slurred helplessly. "Why did you bring me here?" 

Tom appeared disgusted, scowling at her from underneath his fringe of silky raven bangs. "Do not be a fool," he spat, crossing his arms. He cocked the corner of his mouth in a vicious smile and shed his graceful beauty like a second skin. "I need you, Ginny," he snarled, frowning in repulsion. "You thought that just because my book was destroyed you could regain your lifestyle... Running about, living as though everything had returned to normal. But you're wrong. What I took from you," he laughed, "that, my dear, was irreplaceable. I drank from your very soul."

"You didn't!" Ginny gasped half in horror, half in a subtle plea. "You're lying. You have to be..." she whispered.

"I do not lie," said Tom firmly, reacquiring his smooth mannerisms. "I state merely those truths which I believe will cause the greatest reaction, and as you see, I am quite good at it." He stepped close to her, slipping an icy hand around her waist and pulling her so close that it seemed to her every inch of their bodies touched; she could feel his breath tingling on her face.

"Don't," she implored, putting her hands against his chest. "Please, get away from me..." Her head began to pound like a bass drum and it spread until her whole being throbbed in alarm. "Get-" She was stopped suddenly as he sealed her mouth with his.

When she first gained possession of the diary, she had spent numerous nights lying awake, wondering what Tom looked like… what color hair and eyes he had, if he was handsome or gawky. She pondered this until she had an exact image in her mind, and unsurprisingly, she was nearly dead on. Now, she admitted, this could have had something to do with her infatuation with Harry Potter, but so alike was the real Tom to her dream Tom it was almost too uncanny. In her mind, she had pictured taking walks with him, holding hands and watching beautiful sunsets on the shore of the vast lake on the edge of the grounds. She imagined his kiss, light and sweet like a cool summer breeze, his body smelling of cut grass and fresh lemonade.

But his real kiss was nothing of the sort.

It was rough and forced, and the instant his lips grazed hers, it was as if she had stepped into a hurricane. Her mind went blank and her senses burned with a heightened awareness the likes of which she had never experienced. A ringing with the volume level of a minor explosion roared in her ears. Tom's body gave a shudder, and a powerful beam of light shot from his chest and into hers, stealing her breath like a grappling hook through the heart. She cried out and pried open her eyes, but all she could see was a blurred cleanliness, all darkness swept away. Tom was nowhere to be seen.

The marble deteriorated from beneath her feet and she began to fall, her mind going blank long before she ever hit the bottom.

"I'm family, you can't not let me in!"

"_Mister_ Weasley, I will thank you kindly to sit _down_ or return to class! Your sister is fine, she merely slipped and bumped her head." 

"She's been asleep for two days!"  
"Do not raise your voice to me, Mister Weasley, I am quite aware! Now get _out!_" 

"But-"

"NOW."

There was a noisy sort of scuffling and the loud click of a door being shut. All sound seemed amplified as Ginny fought to raise her eyelids, which were unbelievably heavy. Her head pounded as viciously as though she'd been run over by the Knight Bus. With a slight groan, she forced herself above the surface of sleep and emerged into the conscious world.

She was in the infirmary, closed off by curtains and buried under a mound of white sheets. The edges of her vision were blurred, but slowly her strength seemed to build and she sat up, settling herself amongst the fluffy blue striped pillows. It was morning; she could tell by the cheerful sunlight and fresh breeze that trickled through her open window. The warm sunshine pulsed pleasantly on her face and neck. Through the crisp white divider she could hear Madame Pomfrey bustling about, tending to students and brewing her infamous potions, all the time clacking her tongue and being generally irritable, as always.

Ginny called out a bit weakly, her voice crackling and thick. "Madame Pomfrey?"

There was a movement behind her and to the left, and a purring voice responded. "At last, you awake."

Startled, she whipped around and instantly was dizzied by the motion. Her eyes fell onto a boy in the corner, with messy, soot colored hair and a thin build. "Harry?" she asked timidly, flushing at the prospect of having Harry waiting by her bedside. He turned slowly to face her, wearing a wicked grin, and Ginny screamed.

It was Tom.

The curtains were thrown open and Madame Pomfrey came bounding in, her face flushed. "What? What is it dear?" she asked, her eyes darting around the small cubicle frenziedly.

"It's him!" Ginny yelled, tumbling off the bed in a mad scramble to put distance between her and the future Dark Lord. "It's Tom, he's here!" She whirled around and thrust an accusatory finger at the corner, her breathing harsh and ragged as though she'd run a race. Her head was suddenly light and the world seemed to be spinning.

Riddle was... gone.

"There's no one there, dear," Madame Pomfrey huffed, her hands on her hips. "You must have had a nightmare; you've been unconscious for nearly two days." She took Ginny's shoulders and led her back to the bed, tucking the covers tightly around her arms. "It was a rather nasty fall, I'm not at all surprised that you had a few bad dreams," she murmured soothingly in her faint lilt.  
Ginny's mouth felt as though it was stuffed with cotton, and her tongue was swollen. She felt utterly frozen as she gazed into the empty corner. "But, he was just there... It wasn't a dream," she insisted shakily, nearly gagging as the medi-witch tipped an unpleasant liquid down her throat. "Stop that!" Frustrated, she shooed away Madame Pomfrey's fluttering fingers. "You have to listen to me! Tom Riddle has returned!" 

"Well, I never!" the nurse cried indignantly as Ginny swatted at Madame Pomfrey's attempts to medicate her. "It was only a dream! A side affect, most likely, of the healing spells I used earlier on your wounds! And it would do you good to show some respect toward the woman who saved your life!"

Angry, Ginny turned her head to resist further prodding and poking. "Saved my life? I thought I only slipped and bumped my head," she spat, scowling. Was it really her imagination? That would mean she made quite a spectacle of herself. But, where was the diary?

Madame Pomfrey had resorted to the silent treatment, apparently, as she began snatching up various bottles and hitting them with vigorous cleaning spells, her back turned. "Where are my things?" Ginny demanded, shocked by her own voice. She sounded haughty, expectant... like... a _Slytherin_.

The witch turned to glare at her, her eyes blazing like tiny infernos. "Your books are on the bed-side table," she said curtly, sweeping up one last bottle before turning to leave. But, almost as an afterthought, she cast a glance over her shoulder. "There's a boy here to see you. I'll send him in, as you are _obviously_ well enough."

Ginny just nodded, acknowledging that the visitor was most likely Ron, before heaving the heavy stack of books from her table and tossing them at the foot of the bed. They spilled out in a colorful array, some paperback, others textbooks. Instantly she began searching through them in despair.

Nothing! Could she have imagined it all? Surely she would not... But where was it, then? Where was the lovely little book, with its familiar, worn pages, and its cool leather? Where was the tormenting little confidant with its beaten edges and snakelike words? A cry escaped her lips and in a moment of fury, she swept the books from her bed in a single swing, heat swelling in her chest. It was impossible! Where could it be? Damn Riddle and his games! Damn him for ensnaring her with his false kindness! How blinded she was, and yet, how she _longed_ for that book. Though she could not explain the desire, it was all-consuming. She would have traded her soul for five minutes with the diary.

"But I already have..." she whispered aloud, laughing bitterly. Tears brimmed her eyes. "I already have..." 

Suddenly, a blur caught her eye. Prepared for anything this time, she rose her eyes, looking wearily to the presence.

But, indeed, for the second time that day, she was left alarmed and surprised. It was Draco, and in his hands...  
"My diary!" she cried, her fingers itching to snatch it away.

"_Your_ diary?" he asked, scowling. "I warned you, Weasley..." His face looked troubled and warn, but his cool eyes observed her with their usual vindictiveness, both disturbing and angelic at the same time. His silvery hair served as a breathtaking halo, glossing over the tell-tale signs sleepless nights.

"Please," Ginny said in a small voice. "Just give it to me. You don't understand; I need it." Just looking at the journal in his possession made her sick; it made her insides churn and her head spin.

"You do not," he shot back. "You just think you do... He's already got you under his control." There was something fierce about his expression that disturbed her.

"You don't understand!" cried Ginny again. "You couldn't possibly..." she broke off. "Just... please... give it back to me. You have no idea what kind of trouble you'll be causing if you don't. I _need_ it, really." 

"Yes, thanks for that," Draco snapped. "You've stated that twice now. There are thing you can't even begin to comprehend at work here, Weasley. The kind of things that would make someone like you wet your pants."

"I do not wet my pants!" Ginny said indignantly, quite distracted by this remark and his blunt arrogance. The nerve! "And you are not as high and mighty as you think! You come in here like some reformed martyr, pretending to be gracious– like you really care what happens to me! I don't believe it for a minute. Fuck off!" Her cheeks flushed and she did her best to look strong, despite the fact that every molecule in her body ached at the sight of her precious book. Her heart screamed for it; it was so close. If only she could touch it...

Draco merely smirked at her outburst, folding his arms and leaning idly against one of the hideous velvet chairs near her bedside. "You've some nerve, yourself," he drawled amusedly. "Because I can see it in your eyes, you'd do anything to get this journal from me." 

"Just hand it to me," she said through clenched teeth. "We had a _deal_. Hand it to me, or I reveal your little secret."

"Ah, yes," he murmured. His head lowered, a twisted smile playing on his features. "My little... 'secret'." A laugh escaped his throat and he shook his head. "Funny thing, that. Blaise broke up with me yesterday, you see. I suppose I just can't compare to the Minister's son... Anyway... I had this thought. And I realized I had two options." He raised two fingers to demonstrate. "I _could_ protect her, and keep her little habits to myself. Or, I could risk ruining her reputation, (God knows she deserves it) and prevent the rising of another Dark Lord in the meantime. Kill two birds with one stone, you know, it could prove interesting."

"You bastard," Ginny whispered, horrified by the prospect that he might not return the book to her. "What would it matter?" she questioned in a moment of despair. "Why would you care if there were two Tom Riddle's?" Her heart pounded furiously at her ribcage. This was insane. Surely, it couldn't be happening... After all this waiting, it was impossible to think she would receive the diary only to have it taken away by Draco Malfoy! 

His eyes narrowed and he turned his icy stare to her, sending chills down her spine. "I have my reasons," he said quietly. "They shouldn't matter to you. But, I'll give you this much. You need to understand, Ginny... That book was created for your downfall, and yours alone. I know things about you that would give you nightmares, turn you paranoid. You have to listen to me. This diary will destroy you."


End file.
